


four seasons.

by waywardway



Series: the stomach is the way to the heart. [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 09:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardway/pseuds/waywardway
Summary: the blossoming of happy ending.





	1. winter & spring.

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the prequel-esque story to "the way to the heart"! this will be posted in two parts, winter & spring and summer & fall. it's a mix of retrospective accounts, short scenes, and the inner workings of semi's mind as he gets to know kuroo :]

**WINTER**.

His first impression of Tetsuro Kuroo wasn’t a good one. It was bad enough that he was interrupted in the midst of work, a routine that was _finally_ starting to take shape, by a privileged trust-fund kid who wasn’t going to be serving upwards of two hundred people that evening and therefore didn’t need to prep so half of the staff wouldn’t start melting down hour two into the dinner rush.

His impression only worsened hearing him speak. There was something uninspiring about him. It wasn’t that he looked like a bad person, or incompetent, or idiotic. He didn’t look like he couldn’t have cared less, and was purely there for obligation and duty. He just looked weak. Kind of like a knife that had been used too long without periodic sharpening and maintenance. All the life had been sucked out of him and he was just a shell of a human walking around making orders and demanding obedience. Semi, as a general rule, was universally unimpressed with the human race; but if there were two kinds of people he specifically hated, the first would be money-hungry vultures and the second would be spineless cowards. As it happened, he was about eighty percent sure Tetsuro Kuroo embodied both personas. Why else would he be torturing himself with a job he so obviously despised? It wasn’t like he was trying to hide it. Semi was being lectured on how great the company was and how short-sighted it was for him to treat this opportunity so lightly, but the guy’s face was all contorted as if he hated what he was saying and wished he didn’t have to. Surely the salary for the chairman of a successful food corporation banking on the growing trend of trying cooking into some kind of capitalist feat was enough for someone to mentally torture themselves like that.

But it wasn’t just that. If it was just that, Semi might have quit right then and there. No, there was something else. He didn’t notice it at first, but when he caught sight of it, it was like siren begging to be heard and acknowledged. This guy wasn’t just lifeless, he was drowning. He looked like he was, at once, jealous that Semi had a job that didn’t involve giving vague, unoriginal lectures on company policy and pride and jealous that Semi had a career doing something he genuinely felt passionate about, passionate enough to risk everything in order to reap the rewards of the years he’s suffered getting to this point.

He almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

If he hated his job so much, he would leave. If he felt that miserable, he would leave. Clearly this guy hadn’t suffered enough yet.

So, what did he do? He couldn’t just let it go. That was too easy. He, really, had no choice but to show this chairman what he was missing, living a life without purpose and moseying about without anything to show for it.

Semi had only tried it with a handful of people. Most he didn’t really want to bother with. They weren’t worth utilizing so much of his skill, wasting so much of his time, and draining so much of his effort. Futakuchi was his first attempt (victim), but he usually didn’t like counting him as an attempt; he and Futakuchi had known each other for nearly a decade. It would have been an embarrassing failure if he had yet to know what kind of food Futakuchi enjoyed. His chemistry professor was another one; long after he had graduated, he had met him again for the first time since his second year. The last was a particularly annoying client who had refused to eat anything off the menu and demanded something new. It was at his first restaurant working as the head chef, and while normally Semi wouldn’t entertain elitist snobbery, it pissed him off so much that he wanted to shut the geezer up once and for all.

Not by death.

He admit that he thought about it, though.

It wasn’t an exact science. Just a hunch. Some people were easier to read than others, some readings had to be simplified, some readings had to be expanded upon, but it all came down to one thing: manifesting emotion into something tangible. It wasn’t about what those people felt, but rather what they wanted to feel. With the piss poor manner in which the world was accelerating, most people needed to taste hope. But it wasn’t about helping these people find a way to cope; it was always about him, and what he could do to become better and move farther.

What gave them away were the eyes. Particularly with broken souls, it was like the soul was trying to escape from the misery entrapping them into the person’s body.

Tetsuro Kuroo was the most broken soul he had ever seen. He didn’t just need hope. He needed life. He was, perhaps, the fifth or sixth person who was going to be given this specific treatment, so it still didn’t come easy to him yet. It took an entire work shift for Semi to think of the word in which this dish was going to be based:

Revitalization.

That sorry excuse for a human really needed to breath in life again.

**SPRING**.

_Beautiful_.

Semi had gotten more than one comment on his cooking during the seven years he had undertaken it. Some were good, some were bad, some were mediocre—but none of the comments he had gotten ever said that. His cooking was never called beautiful. It wasn’t an adjective traditionally used to describe a dish’s _taste_. He wasn’t even sure what it meant exactly, it was too abstract, and it wasn’t even explained properly, that coward.

Tetsuro Kuroo was a lot more complex than he had initially given credit for. Most people, a majority of people, didn’t move him. Futakuchi was always saying it was uncanny how unflappable he was. Semi didn’t lack sympathy; he lacked the desire to give it freely without question of its authenticity. People weren’t genuine. They weren’t trustworthy. The few that were didn’t outweigh the most that weren’t. Someone like Tetsuro Kuroo wouldn’t have normally moved him.

But he did.

He was simultaneously just like and completely different than the kind of people Semi criticized. It was like he was asking for sympathy, but he couldn’t at the same time. He looked as if he wanted so desperately to be saved, but didn’t know how to ask for it. He was pretending he was okay, but also wasn’t hiding the fact that he wasn’t.

Semi had initially thought that Tetsuro Kuroo hadn’t suffered enough.

Now he thought that maybe he suffered too much. He was in a lot of pain.

These conclusions irritated him as much as they softened him. The fact that he was softening _also_ irritated him. Someone like Tetsuro Kuroo didn’t need someone like him to be concerned over him. Semi wasn’t going to lose sleep over him. No matter how pitiful he looked, he was sure that the position, the class, and the status was more than enough to keep him going. People like that didn’t need sympathy,

That was valid right until the moment Kuroo told him, _him_, someone he didn’t even know nor necessarily liked, why he was doing this job. Semi thought for sure, when he asked why Kuroo was doing something he so clearly despised, that it would be for money and prestige. If someone offered you a position that you were so apparently under-qualified for but came with more money than you could spend in a lifetime, you got your shit together and did it. Wasn’t that how most of the simpletons in this universe worked?

But, apparently and much to his surprise, it wasn’t about money.

It wasn’t about what would come with being the chairman of a multi-national corporation. Kuroo was concerned about the people who were being employed. Kuroo was genuinely concerned that if he wasn’t there to make sure they were getting what his father had promised them, they would suffer for it. Kuroo was concerned about thousands of strangers he would likely never meet. Kuroo was willing to sacrifice himself and his livelihood for the sake of those who were probably gossiping about his privilege and incompetence in spaces they thought no one would hear them. It was just incomprehensible. Kuroo didn’t owe those people anything. Presumably, being chairman meant that he could have enacted any kind of amendment to make managing those employees easier and less troublesome. Instead, Kuroo thought that it was his own inability that was giving him a hard time. He didn’t blame his father for thrusting this responsibility onto him, he didn’t blame the employees for being just another menace he had to deal with, he blamed himself.

Seeing something so completely contradictory to what Semi was been expecting was almost jarring. Tetsuro Kuroo was more human than most people Semi had the displeasure of knowing. Tetsuro Kuroo was fragile. Tetsuro Kuroo was an idiotic, altruistic simpleton.

Tetsuro Kuroo was the first person who moved him.

Something equally jarring was the fact that, seeing Kuroo completely fall apart made Semi instinctively hold his hands out to catch the pieces. He could have just left Kuroo broken. He could have left him there to figure out his own problems and deal with his own demons. But he didn’t.

Eita Semi used to be selfish. He was self absorbed. The things that mattered to him were those that directly affected him. People were pests who could never drop dead enough to satisfy him. Eita Semi didn’t want anything to do with anyone or anything. That day, the smallest sliver of light pierced through his being. Being dark and cold for so long, that small shred of light lit up the darkest crevices of his soul. His light had been dangerously close to dying; Tetsuro Kuroo saved it from being blown out.

The night Kuroo cooked for him for the first time, he tasted something unlike anything he ever had. It was filled to the brim with something that even Semi hadn’t mastered yet: the creator’s own heart. He remembered thinking what a disservice it was that those hands weren’t being used to actually cook, and were instead being forced to flip through papers and overlook ten-year projections and applicants and give presentations and answer correspondence. But it wasn’t just that. Semi caught the distinct hint of something else. Something that took a vice grip of his heart and didn’t let go.

_Don’t leave. Wait for me._


	2. summer & fall.

**SUMMER.**

_“I found it.”_

_“Found what?”_

_“Someone I want to cook for.”_

***

“What’s gotten into you lately?” The question is met with a very suspicious looking Futakuchi, looking at Semi as if he was a three-headed gremlin just risen from the depths of the eighth ring of Hell.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. He’s looking right at you.” An unhelpful and unnecessary comment from Keiji Akaashi, agreed with by Sawamura Daichi. Semi thought, naively, that maybe Daichi would salvage him just this once and _not_ mention what he had told him a week ago. It was embarrassingly heartfelt, which wasn’t like Semi at all. Besides, he didn’t want people knowing about this. Not that there was much to know about, but still. He was still trying to navigate it himself.

“I think this’ll clear it up,” Daichi begins, and before Semi can stab him with the fork nearby or dump his coffee on him or try to shove a plate into his mouth, he’s already zipped past the words and released them into the universe for all to listen to. “He found someone he wants to cook for.”

“Huh?”

“What is that? Chef language?”

Daichi cuts off all other questions with a raise of his hand. “I think the more important question is who it is. To no one’s surprise, you haven’t mentioned anyone. And it must be someone that made you turn from the not-so-friendly Jackest of Frosts to…this.” The same hand that silenced Futakuchi and Akaashi is waved vaguely at Semi’s being.

“Ah, so it’s a question of not _what_ but rather _who_ got into him.” Futakuchi corrected. Stupid, smug bastard.

“Our baby bird is ready to leave the nest.”

“I feel like a dad sending his kid off to pre-school.”

“All of you, shut the hell up.” Even the regulars at work had started leaving these equivocal comments for him, indecipherable comments like “your food has so much more soul”—whatever _that_ was supposed to mean. Being able to tangibly recreate emotion-like tastes was one thing, but to insinuate that something about the essence of his cooking had changed? How did something like that just happen after nearly ten years of using the same, robust foundation he had spent so long building?

“It’s the person you’re spending all your days off with, right?” Daichi mused. A gross exaggeration: it wasn’t _all_ of his days off. Just most.

“I think you just might be onto something, Daichi-san. Who _is_ this person whose stolen all your attention?” Akaashi asked, gesturing for Futakuchi to also add something. Semi beat him to the chase.

“I _really_ don’t think Futakuchi wants to know.”

Daichi and Akaashi give each other quizzical looks. Futakuchi looks as if he’s about to retort back, when a terrible sense of realization washes over his expression. He looks terrified, somewhat disgusted, and then completely horrified. “Eh?!”

***

Unbeknownst to Semi, his friends had given Kuroo (still unnamed, because Futakuchi went into a state of permanent shock after realizing who the object of Semi’s affections was and didn’t give up a name yet) a code name: mustard. They couldn’t help but be curious as to who the person was that had cracked Semi’s icy exterior, and so, did independent digging to see if they could figure out who it was that captured their dear Semi’s heart. Futakuchi was the _least_ helpful, Daichi and Akaashi decided, but no matter. What mattered was that Semi was smiling more lately, was a lot gentler and less prickly. He had always been so prickly.

Whoever it was was obviously a miracle worker.

Akaashi was the first one to meet him. He lived in the loft right underneath Semi’s and was one of the few who Semi had enacted an open-door policy with. What that meant, essentially, was that should Akaashi need something from him (sugar, a roll of paper towels, milk, whatever the case may be), he was _not_ to ring the doorbell and bother Semi from what he was doing (i.e. sleeping, which he didn’t get enough of, or cooking, which was perhaps even more important than the first thing), but just invite himself in. He had known Akaashi for long enough to trust that he wasn’t a masked murderer, and besides, Akaashi was so quiet and untemperamental that he could go in and out without making his presence known.

That day had been a little different.

Akaashi needed creamer for his coffee, not having had time to go to the store and buy his usual brand, but unable to do without it. Pure coffee was just too bitter for him to digest. So, he picked up the spare key to Semi’s loft he kept in a bowl of keys and other knickknacks he collected but couldn’t find a place to store, and ventured upstairs. As per usual, he lets himself in, and wanders to the kitchen. And _in_ said kitchen there was seated a strange man with unruly black hair reading some ant-sized fine print on what he assumed was the newest smartphone available for purchase in the market.

“M-Mustard.” The code name just slipped out from reflex, shock, reflex _and_ shock—in all the four years they had been neighbours never once had Akaashi seen anyone else in Semi’s loft. Until now.

Both the stranger and Semi (he had been doing something with ginger but Akaashi was too far away to get a good look; not that he would know if he actually saw it) turned to face him. Semi didn’t even seem fazed and he went right back to chopping (? Grating? Slicing?) the ginger root. The man was a little different. He seemed just as frazzled as Akaashi was, staring back at him as if he was unsure whether he should acknowledge him or ask Semi who the stranger was that had just walked into his loft as if he owned it.

“You don’t even like mustard,” was the only thing Semi remarked. Great. Not only did he have to claim an unwanted bottle of mustard, he had to explain _why_ he wanted it in the first place.

“That’s Akaashi, my neighbour. This is Kuroo-san.” The introduction is rushed and an after thought, but Akaashi expected as much. When Semi was cooking, he focused all of his attention onto it, and that was why he hated interruptions (case in point: the open-door policy) and couldn’t mentally be in two places at one time. If his mind was on cooking, it was on cooking. Nothing else could compete. “Nice to meet you, Kuroo-san.

“Nice to meet you too, Akaashi-san.” The stranger seemed a little awkward, but his overall first impression of him wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Whereas Semi radiated a prominent _don’t fuck with me _aura, Kuroo’s was far mellower. It made Akaashi wonder how these two even got acquainted in the first place.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.” He can see Semi twitch a little out of the corner of his eye.

“Heard about me?”

“Thanks for your hard work.”

“Hard work on…?”

“On the ginger-cutter over there.”

A bottle of mustard comes flying at him, thrown none-too-gently. “Take your damn mustard and leave.”

Akaashi exhibits a hint of a grin, bows in greeting at Kuroo-san, and takes his leave. He didn’t end up leaving with his coffee creamer, but this was far better.

***

“Do you know what I realized recently?” He’s stirring a sauce pot with more concentration than it probably required, slender fingers barely holding onto the wooden spoon as it made its way around the circular edges. Kuroo was busy slicing button mushrooms by the dozens with precision and speed that made it hard to believe that he really hadn’t properly touched any kitchen utensils in three years.

That was still cruel. Not Kuroo’s skill, but the fact that he was barred from something he clearly did well.

“What?”

“You’re better at this than I am.”

Those words would have been impossible for him to say if this interaction had taken place one, two, ten years ago. It wasn’t that Semi believed he was the best there was; he wasn’t naïve enough to indulge those delusions. But actually admitting that aloud was another story.

“At cutting mushrooms? I don’t think that warrants enough skill to call that a compliment.”

“I meant cooking.”

Kuroo slows down his rhythm a notch. “I’m not. I just spent three years longer than you did learning how to hold a knife and what kind of pan to use to sweat onions.”

“I have more experience working in kitchens than you do. I should be a little better than you, especially considering the fact that you haven’t done any cooking for three years.” Semi didn’t have any formal culinary training, but that was mostly because he didn’t see the need to pay thousands of dollars to learn what he could by actually _working_ in a restaurant and getting paid for it. Everything he knew was what he was learned by observing or being corrected by those higher up than he was. While Kuroo was being taught in a classroom, Semi had actually been living it, experiencing it. In the 1095 days Kuroo didn’t use his culinary arsenal, Semi was perfecting his craft.

None of that held a candle to what Kuroo could do.

Whenever Kuroo cooked, he had this expression on his face like he was returning home after being away for an outstretched period of time. Kuroo looked comfortable. He could accurately eyeball measurements from a sixteenth to a litre. He knew the solution to almost any problem—too sweet, too spicy, too acidic, too bland, too salty, too rich, too watery, too creamy, too fluffy, too dense, Kuroo knew what to do to fix it.

This was the man people were destroying. People were keeping him from this. Nothing pissed Semi off more than knowing that reality. Kuroo’s reality.

“I’m sorry.” The words are barely comprehensible, murmured under Kuroo’s breath. That was another consequence of what those vultures were doing to him: making him believe that he wasn’t worth being complimented, he wasn’t worth happiness or comfort of any kind, he was incompetent and severely lacking to the point where he didn’t deserve anything until he could get himself together to do what they wanted from him.

They probably didn’t know. Everyone employed by the Tetsuro Company probably didn’t even know what they were doing. They just quietly enjoyed their unchanging lives with ignorant bliss of what was being given up for them.

“I wish you could be happy.” He had been thinking that for a while, he just didn’t know how to linguistically phrase it. Semi didn’t know how he could say it so that it would encompass what he wanted to say it; he had never said it to anyone before, nor did he feel as strongly about it as he did.

“I’m happier.” A prominent pause. “Because of you.”

**FALL. **

The first time they kissed, it was a cool evening. After long deliberation, Semi felt confident that he had pinpointed a cuisine Kuroo would like, something refreshing, bright and charming: Vietnamese food. He had visited a small establishment a year ago with Akaashi when the electricity in their building had been cut off, making cooking impossible. Akaashi suggested take out, but there was no way Semi could ever agree to eating something delivered in a plastic container. The first time they kissed was the first time he saw so much of Kuroo soul. The first time they kissed was also the first time that Semi bared his own soul for someone to look at, hold, and protect.

Their first time happened shortly after. If Semi thought Kuroo _cooking_ was attractive, Kuroo in bed was something else entirely. It was exhilarating and unlike anything Semi had experienced with anyone else. It was unrestrained Kuroo. Hands in hair, fingers clawing at bare skin and trembling mouths against skin, he thinks nothing else has ever felt so good.

The first morning they spend together, Semi stirs first. Kuroo is sound asleep next to him, chest against his back, cheek against his nape. He isn’t getting enough sleep, Semi knows it, so he maneuvers out of bed stealthily enough so as not to wake him. Clad in nothing but sweatpants he’s tiptoeing (in his own loft) around the kitchen, rummaging for a coffee filter and _ever_ so slowly turning on the tap to fill the coffee pot—when it came to cooking he was stingier than most with ingredients and utensils, but for coffee, he wouldn’t know the difference between a five hundred yen blend and a five thousand yen blend—and then clicking the machine shut with the upmost care. Making coffee though, as it turned out, was kind of a loud affair. It was hissing and spouting and he’s thinking that he really needs to invest in a quieter machine when the door to his room creaks open and feet shuffle across the floor.

“Coffee,” was grumbled out, Kuroo’s frame leaning against his own and resting his chin atop his shoulder. That was one thing Semi hadn’t really expected: Kuroo was affectionate. Even more unexpected was that Semi was too. “It’ll be done in five minutes, hold on until then.”

A few days ago, he received a message from a suspicious number warning him about coffee. Apparently, it was Kuroo’s friend by the name of Bokuto, who had written (in all caps):

WHATEVER YOU DO KEEP KUROO CAFFEINATED

Semi kind of wanted more information on that, like an explanation as to why that was the first piece of advice he was given about Kuroo that Bokuto felt as if he needed to know more than anything else. When he inquired as such, he got these gems as a response:

WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHY

DO YOU NEED A REASON TO NOT WANT TO SEE SATAN REINCARNATED

YOU THINK HE’S ALL NICE AND CALM UNTIL YOU RUN OUT OF COFFEE BEANS AND THEN ALL HELL BREAKS LOSE

AS IN KUROO

KUROO IS THE HELL THAT BREAKS LOOSE

THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD I’M TRYING TO PROTECT YOU

“I’m not good at waiting,” came Kuroo’s response, but luckily, the gods of fate must have been on his side because right then enough coffee had dripped to pour a cup—in Kuroo measurements, which was more like two in average-people language, and Semi was saved from what Bokuto called ‘Satan reincarnated.’ 

“Two cups sound good?”

“Fine, what are you going to have?”

A smile is playing on his lips as the coffee is poured into a plain, black mug and then handed off to him. He’s turning now to properly face the grump before him, waist leaning against the rounded protruding edge of the counter. The cheeky grin on his face isn’t exactly the kind of reincarnation of Satan Semi had been expecting when Bokuto had warned him. Kuroo takes a sip of his anti-Satan liquid, and with a sheer coat of coffee remnants catching light on his bottom lip, he’s being pulled in by a two-finger hold on the hem of his white undershirt and pulled into their nth kiss of the day.

Their first fight was about misplaced anger. Semi was just so vexed by the idea that Kuroo’s life plan had been laid out for him by everyone but the very person being affected by it. Seeing Kuroo happy because he was cooking, albeit either in Semi’s kitchen or the kitchen in Kuroo’s ridiculously extravagant apartment, did nothing to alleviate that vexation. Most of that was because Semi had seen more than once some residual remains of the misery Kuroo wore as a mask whenever he returned from another fifteen-hour workday. Kuroo always said he was thinking, and he could _feel_ that something was about to change, but it was torture having to see someone he cared about so much feeling that way. Semi understood the fact that sometimes, people had to be pushed until the edge before they could recognize the fact that something needed to change. But Kuroo had been pushed and pushed and then pushed some more. It wasn’t Kuroo that he was angry at, but he got angry nonetheless. After a particularly gruelling day of work himself, his fuse was already short enough as it was.

He knew he should have held it in.

Neither of them were screamers. They didn’t throw tantrums or get excessively violent. In other words, they were the _worst_ people to argue with. It was always those people who where eerily contained even when angry that were dangerous. He and Kuroo were no exception to that rule. In a moment where he temporarily lost his cool, he had called Kuroo a coward, spineless and, worst of all, weak. Kuroo hated that word. Semi hated that word, too. Kuroo, in turn, called him an insensitive asshole, obnoxious and, worst of all, heartless. Semi hated that word. They were in Kuroo’s apartment that night, Semi was supposed to stay the night, but he stormed off. He _almost_ stormed off.

He was at the door. He was about to put on his shoes. But he didn’t feel good. Fighting with Kuroo didn’t feel good. In fact, it felt worse than most things Semi deemed as not feeling good. He understood why Kuroo couldn’t drop everything right away. He could see that he wanted to, and Semi trying to egg him on wasn’t helping. Kuroo felt a responsibility engraved so deep into his psyche that simply telling him to let go would never be enough. Kuroo had to decide this on his own, figure a way out of this on his own, and Semi had to accept that. And he did, on good days.

He had to learn to accept it on the bad days, too.

Semi _almost_ stormed off. In a last-minute decision, he decided not to. He returns, his aura cooling, back to the kitchen. Kuroo was waiting for his coffee to finish brewing. His expression was complicated and unreadable, but a flash of genuine surprise took over seeing Semi back. Because of Kuroo, he was learning how to apologize. He still wasn’t great at it (it wasn’t natural for him to apologize, and so, more often than not, the words came out strained almost to the point of sounding sarcastic; he was working on it), but he could tell that Kuroo understood the sentiment. No matter how many times he told him that it wasn’t necessary, he got an apology, too. He didn’t want to believe it, but he got feeling that Kuroo was surprised not that Semi had returned calmer than when he had gone off, but that he hadn’t given up on him. The unreadable expression had been him thinking about how he would, once again, be alone. They fought considerably less after that.

Their first “I love you” was undramatic and candid. On a day where Semi had the day off and Kuroo had to go into work, Kuroo had finished his coffee and was in a rush to get out the door. Something about Futakuchi giving him a _you’re my boss so I can’t say it, but I’m disappointed in you_ look. As per usual, he was given a kiss goodbye, and then the bomb was dropped:

“I’ll be back in time for dinner, I love you.”

Kuroo’s stopped mid-step, as if he _just_ registered what he had said. Before Kuroo could retract into himself or start panicking right then and there, he got a response three beats later. “I love you too, now go, you’ll be late.”

He got an endearing smile, a rushed “okay,” and another kiss before he left.

They said “I love you” considerably more after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and finally, their story comes to a close :[ thank you for reading and enjoying their story ♡ and, to satiate my Need for more of this universe, the sequel is being written as i type these notes !! stay tuned for that soon :] a hint as to what (or Whom) the sequel will be about: a not-so-gentle giant and someone who needs to be handled with care.


End file.
